


Contraband

by nahco3



Series: emo Americans [2]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-29
Updated: 2011-08-29
Packaged: 2017-10-23 05:37:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/246815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nahco3/pseuds/nahco3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Landon and Tim at the World Cup.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Contraband

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted to my lj.

World Cup is kind of like summer camp, Landon thinks. Not the games themselves – those are wholly incomparable, intensely, terrifyingly wonderful. He’s started to hear vuvuzelas droning in his dreams. No, the rest of World Cup is like camp, a bunch of guys living together, taking part in highly structured activities, being shepherded from one place to the next and eating not very good food together. The hours stretch in the same way Landon remembers from when he was a little kid; summer extending until suddenly it’s gone.

It’s also kind of like college (or how Landon imagines college would have been; he never went) but there’s no beer.

When they get to South Africa, Coach Bradley rounds them all up and reads them the riot act. (“Don’t light anything on fire. Don’t trash your hotel rooms. Don’t play video games…”) Landon and Tim, standing at the back of the room, ignore him. Tim has a playful arm over Landon’s shoulder and a reckless grin on his face, both of which make Landon’s mouth go dry.

Then Bradley says, “No coffee,” and Tim makes a sound like he’s been punched. Landon’s about to laugh, but Bradley continues, “and no beer, and absolutely no sex,” and Landon feels something close to horror.

They collect their room keys in silence, still at the back of the group, and wait for the elevator. When an elevator comes, Tim and Landon somehow end up alone in it. Landon wonders if he’s being punished for something – he is not going to survive even a day in Tim Howard’s immediate presence without wanting to fuck him really, really badly. He needs a drink, which he also can’t have. He fidgets, desperately.

Tim looks over at him and laughs, which makes Landon’s chest tighten up.

"I've got a bad feeling about this,” Tim says, laughing.

"Don't quote Han Solo at me,” Landon says, edging toward him.

"You're just mad since that makes you Princess Leia,” Tim leans back against the wall of the elevator, absurdly tall.

"I am not Princess Leia in this or any metaphor."

"You're short and you have weird hair. Sounds like Princess Leia to me." Tim gives him a huge grin and reaches up to mess with Landon’s hair.

"I,” Landon stammers at the contact. “I do not have weird hair."

"You're balding at 28. That's a little weird."

"You're already bald!"

"Because I shave my head."

The elevator dings, and Tim removes his hand from Landon’s head. Landon’s still looking at him a little stupidly, but he tries to stop. Just another way this is like camp – the need to hide your crush on the idiotic boy you share your cabin with.

Landon and Tim have adjoining rooms, so they say goodnight in the hallway. “Sleep well,” Tim says a little wistfully, and Landon has to dash into his shower to jerk off right away.

The next morning, his phone rings at an ungodly hour.

“What,” he says, once he’s managed to locate it in the dark of his room.

“Coffee, my room, now,” Tim says. “Don’t tell anyone.”

“What? You lying?” Landon asks again, only this time, there’s hope in his voice. “Tim, please don’t be.”

Tim makes a chocked-off noise and Landon thinks that this “no sex” rule is going to get broken really fucking soon. He gets out of bed, pulls on a giant pair of sweats (they must be Tim’s; they’re stupidly long) and an old T-shirt and goes to knock on Tim’s door.

Tim is standing there with a cup of coffee and a blissful expression. He hands it to Landon.

“Dude,” Landon says, pushing inside and shutting the door behind him. “Thank you so much.” He takes a sip.

“Wait, is there sugar in this?”

“…yes,” Tim says, looking up from his own milky coffee. “Because I don’t hate you enough to make you drink black coffee.”

“I like black coffee.”

Tim starts laughing. “You would.” He walks over to the coffee machine (where did he get a coffee maker? He must be some kind of ninja) and pours Landon another cup. “Happy now?”

Landon takes the mug gratefully, and puts down his too-sugary coffee. He takes a sip and walks over to the window, looking out at the grey South African morning. He takes another sip, careful not to burn himself, and Tim comes to stand next to him. Yeah, he’s happy now.

They go down to breakfast with the team, laughing in the elevator when Dempsey looks at them like they’re crazy. “It’s early,” he grumbles to them. “What the fuck is wrong with you guys?” Tim grins at Landon over Clint’s head, and puts a finger to his lips elaborately. Landon nods back.

They have practice all day, and by the end of it, Landon is pleasantly exhausted and only slightly frustrated. He isn’t feeling precisely hopeful, but there’s a growing feeling of possibility in him he can’t seem to shake. When he’s getting of the bus back at the hotel, his phone buzzes. It’s a text from Tim: My room midnight. Dont tell.

Landon scans the crowd for Tim, and when he spots him, raises an eyebrow questioningly. Tim leans his head back and mimes drinking something, then winks at Landon, before disappearing.

At midnight (just after curfew, technically, but rules are meant to be broken, right?) Landon shows up at Tim’s door again. This time, Tim leads him into the bathroom and pulls back the shower curtain.

“Beer,” Landon says, reverently. “How the fuck did you get beer?”

“I have my ways,” Tim replies, leaning down and pulling one out of the tub. “Just don’t have too many, I have a feeling Bradley’d be pretty pissed if he found out. Besides, we have to make them last all tournament.”

“Yeah,” Landon says, reaching down and grabbing one for himself.

They head back to Tim’s room, and Landon sprawls down on the bed next to Tim. They drink in silence for a few minutes, watching tv coverage of the Cup.

“You nervous?” Landon asks.

Tim stretches out slowly. “Yeah.” He lets out a slow breath. “But I know I’ll have you upfield looking out for me.”

Landon takes a drink of his beer. “I’ll try to,” he says, worried to overpromise what he won’t be able to deliver. “I’ll try to.”

Tim gives him a long look, then roles over and turns off the tv.

“Gotta be honest with you, Landon,” he says, “I didn’t go smuggle beer unto our hotel to sit around and mope with you.”

“How easy do you think I am?” Landon asks, putting his beer down and rolling toward Tim.

“Pretty fucking easy,” Tim mutters into the right side of Landon’s neck. “Pretty fucking easy.”

Landon had a clever retort to that, but he never ends up using it.

Landon sleeps steadily that night, waking up only once, around 2 am. The room’s quiet, and Tim is asleep beside him, twitching in his dreams. Landon looks at him, it’s hard to make out his features in the dark, but Landon stares anyway, just for a few seconds. Just to remind himself that it’s all going to work out in the end.


End file.
